Once we had collected ourselves, I stared out my window at the source of the commotion: a cannonball. It sat harmlessly now upon the cobblestone, but it had exacted a grisly toll. Beside it lay one of our riders, his thigh and the belly of his hapless mount sheared almost in half; the blood and bones and meat of man and horse mingled, impossible to distinguish.
Only one kindness had been granted them: both appeared to have been struck dead at once, for the young soldiers open eyes and composed expression showed intensity, but no sign of astonishment or fear; he still bore the reins in one clutched fist. The horses large, handsome head was up, the bit still in his mouth, his eyes intelligent and bright; one of his front hooves was lifted gracefully, in preparation for the next prancing step. Each seemed, with the exception of their horrid, gaping wounds, a beautiful example of youth and strength.
I had wanted to be strong and perfect and brave, for the sake of the others, but I bowed my head, able to bear no more; in that fashion, I travelled the rest of the way to the Castel dellOvo. The image of the young rider and his mount accompanied me; indeed, it travels with me still.
I had grown up in Naples, but had never had cause to visit the homely keep named for Virgils mythical egg. It was scarcely the place for a princess to entertain herself, being a great stone square, wider at the base than at the top, with no furnishings other than military weaponry; it had been constructed to serve as a lookout and first defence against those who invaded by sea, and a last refuge and defence against those who invaded by land. It smelled dank and forbidding; the worn, uneven brick steps were slippery with mildew.
Rather than stay in safer quarters below, I insisted on climbing to the top, where soldiers served as lookouts. Several cannons, accompanied by piles of iron balls, stood at each turret, ready to fire down into the city. All of us who had travelled in the carriages-including those in the family who had preceded and followed us-had been deeply shaken not just by the ignominy of forced retreat, but by the suffering we had witnessed. I could not bear to sit and mourn with Donna Esmeralda as we waited for rescue; instead, I distracted myself by looking out at the sea, for the ship that was to take us away.
There was no sign of it. For hours, there was no sign, and I paced restlessly upon the aged bricks of the terrace while, from time to time, Alfonso emerged from below and asked whether the boat had been spotted.
No, I told him again and again, and each time, he returned to the chamber downstairs, where the King and his general were engaged in discussions of strategy. I stared west, refusing to watch the destruction of the city behind me, and watched as the sun moved lower towards the horizon.
The final time he inquired about the ship, I demanded:
Where are we going?
He leaned forward and spoke in my ear, as if relaying a state secret that the soldiers were not to hear, even though his answer seemed so expected and obvious to me, it would have made no difference had he shouted it down into the streets. Sicily. They say the King there has granted Father refuge in Messina.
I gave a single nod.
Soon it was dusk, and I went downstairs to see the family. Given the delay, we had all grown quite nervous as to whether the general had kept his word, and the ship was indeed on its way: but once the sun had completely set, a shout came from one of the lookouts.
We hurried down to the ship without protocol, without elegance, without fanfare. The vessel was small and fleet, designed for speed, not comfort; for safetys sake, she flew the yellow and red Spanish banner instead of the Neapolitan colours.
Despite Donna Esmeraldas urging that I come below, I stood on the deck as we set sail from Santa Lucias harbour. Although it was night, the city glowed from the blazes that had been set, and the cannons lit up the sky like bursts of lightning, allowing me to pick out landmarks: the armoury and Santa Chiara, where my father had been crowned, were both aflame; the Poggio Reale, a magnificent palace built by my father when he was still Duke, was almost entirely consumed. I was relieved to see that the Duomo had, for the time being, survived.
As for the Castel Nuovo, it burned brightest of all. I could not help wondering how the people had reacted when they discovered Ferrantes museum.
I stood a long time watching on the deck, listening to the lap of the waves as Naples receded, a glittering, angry red jewel.
Spring-Summer 1495
VIII
We sailed due south through the warm waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea, and within a matter of days, arrived in Messina, once called Zancle, or sickle, by the Greeks due to its scythe-shaped harbour. I was grateful to see land; I did not travel well by sea, and this was the longest journey I had made on a sailing ship. My first two days were spent in misery.
Sicily had been ruled for the past twenty-seven years by King Ferdinand of Aragon, he who had joined his kingdom to that of his wife, Isabella of Castile, with the idea of uniting Spain. Besides his blood ties to my family, Ferdinand had good reason to be kindly to the Borgias. As Jofre explained it, when his father Rodrigo was still Cardinal of Valencia, Ferdinand sought Pope Sixtus IVs formal sanction of an Inquisition, by which he and Isabella hoped to rid their kingdom of all Moors and Jews, Christianized or not.
Sixtus flatly refused. Only after long, intense lobbying by the persuasive and powerful Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia did the Pope slightly relent-allowing the Inquisition to proceed in the province of Castile alone.
King Ferdinand was so grateful for my fathers help, Jofre told me, with a naiveté that might have been touching had it not chilled me to the bone, that he lent his full support to my fathers election as Pope.
Ferdinand the Catholic, Rodrigo Borgia had always referred to the Spanish King thereafter.
After we set foot upon land and news of our flight from Naples had spread, we were welcomed by the Spanish ambassador, Don Jorge Zuniga. We had taken refuge at a barely adequate villa that left us sorely crowded, with the brothers sharing a bedchamber, Alfonso and Jofre another, and Giovanna, Esmeralda and I a third, so that Ferrandino had the privacy befitting a monarch.
Don Jorge appeared the night of our arrival. He cut a dashing figure, in a cape and matching tunic of bright carmine, with a quick, easy smile beneath a drooping black moustache. I believe he had expected a warm welcome from our family, and abject pleas for help; he certainly did not expect what he received.
Your Highnesses, he said, bowing low to us all, and removing a feathered velvet cap with a sweep of his arm. It is with great sorrow that I learned of the circumstances surrounding your journey to our fair island. He paused. Our agents informed us of the uprising amongst the barons; we assume that they were emboldened by the events at Capua. The city of Capua lay inland, not far to the north of Naples. The citizens there were so frightened by the size of Charles army that they opened the gates and let the French enter at will. He paused. His Majesty King Ferdinand welcomes you, and stands ready to offer whatever aid you require.
Ferrandino sat in the centre of our assembled family, in a place of honour, while the rest of us stood out of deference to his rank. Don Jorge, however, failed to notice the significance of this, prompting Uncle Federico to growl at him:
You will not address Ferrandino as His Highness any longer. He is now King Ferrante II of Naples.
Don Jorge blinked in utter confusion, and began, But King Alfonso Then, ever the diplomat, he sensed the disapproval emanating from us, and bowed a second time, directing the gesture at Ferrandino. Your Majesty. I humbly beg your pardon.
Granted, Ferrandino said. Like the rest of us, he was exhausted, but projected an admirable air of authority. Even so, no amount of kingliness could erase the lines in his brow or the desperation in his eyes. His appetite remained poor, despite Giovannas coaxing, and his cheekbones now stood out in startling relief. I do not know under what pretext my father came here to Messina; I can only assume that he was not forthcoming concerning the circumstances. I am also sure that you are a man of discretion, who can be trusted with the truth.
Granted, Ferrandino said. Like the rest of us, he was exhausted, but projected an admirable air of authority. Even so, no amount of kingliness could erase the lines in his brow or the desperation in his eyes. His appetite remained poor, despite Giovannas coaxing, and his cheekbones now stood out in startling relief. I do not know under what pretext my father came here to Messina; I can only assume that he was not forthcoming concerning the circumstances. I am also sure that you are a man of discretion, who can be trusted with the truth.
Of course, the ambassador replied smoothly.
My father deserted us in our hour of greatest need, Ferrandino continued, and stole a great deal of money from the state. We are here to retrieve it.
Uncle Federico, whose indignance had been slowly building, could no longer contain himself. You have been hosting a criminal! Is it not bad enough that your king did not supply us with troops in time
My half-brother turned on him and said sharply, That is enough, uncle. You will not interrupt our conversation again.
Federico pursed his lips.
We must offer our most abject apologies, Don Jorge said. We assumed, when His Majesty-when His Highness Alfonso arrived, he did so for health reasons, to take advantage of our weather. We thought, most wrongly, that the family was aware of his arrival. He paused, tilted his head to study us each in turn, then said, You are all royals here; I have no doubt you can all be trusted with the most confidential material.
They can, Ferrandino affirmed.
I bring you very good news for the House of Aragon. Your calls for help have not fallen on deaf ears, Your Majesty. The Pope, the Emperor, King Ferdinand, Milan, Venice and Florence have banded together to form a Holy League. I apologize that we were unable to inform you of this fact earlier; there was too great a danger that the French might have intercepted a message and learned of our plans. But an army surpassing that of Charles will shortly be marching south from Rome to meet him.
Ferrandinos expression and eyes softened abruptly, as if he were looking upon something inexpressibly tender, like a newborn son, or a much-adored lover; for an instant, I thought he might weep. Though moved, he collected himself sufficiently to say, in a low voice, God bless the Pope and the Emperor; and God bless King Ferdinand.